


we never go out of style

by girl0nfire



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous OTP Nonsense, Making Love, Marvel 616 (Freeform), POV Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For BuckyNat Secret Santa prompt: "making love".</p><p>Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin, Bucky and Natasha making love one lazy morning after they're reunited (in Marvel 616, post-Black Widow Hunt).</p>
            </blockquote>





	we never go out of style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StainedGlassDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StainedGlassDreams/gifts).



> My BuckyNat Secret Santa 2015 gift for [lostinastainedglassdaydream](http://www.lostinastainedglassdaydream.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Thanks to my super-rad beta who helped me write this fic: [schlicky](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky). Without this wonderful lady this 100% would not exist. 
> 
> (Title from Taylor Swift's "Style", because - I have no excuse.)

It’s rare for there to be a morning where Natasha doesn’t have _some_ reason she should be out of bed - a run with Clint, a call from Isaiah, brunch with Maria, even Liho demanding his breakfast and her attention - so on the precious days it _does_ happen, Natasha likes to take it for the indulgence it is and luxuriate in it.  She could swear, on days like today, even the sun is in on the excess, spoiling her with soft, golden light spilling through the slats of the blinds and filling their bedroom with a quiet warmth.  

James is a welcome, solid weight curled around her back, Liho still sleeping soundly on his share of her pillow, and even if she had to, Natasha’s not sure she _could_ get out of bed, as deliciously comfortable as she is curled up beneath the blankets with James’ arm looped around her waist.  He’d fallen asleep with his nose buried in her hair, as he almost always does, and they’ve come far enough now that on good nights they both sleep peacefully like that, unmoving, his breaths still dancing even and deep along the nape of her neck.

For a few minutes, Natasha contemplates allowing herself to doze again, nearly lulled back to sleep by the comforting heat rolling in waves off James’ body, seeping pleasantly into her skin at every place their bodies touch, his bare chest pressed to her back, their legs tangled together.  He’d always run warm, but with the Infinity Serum still flowing through his veins he’s practically feverish most of the time, and for them, after spending so many years in the cold, that’s a gift.  

Liho wakes first, eventually, indulging in a few long, luxurious stretches before picking his way across the pillow to nuzzle in close to her face, a gentle headbutt his way of saying good morning.  Natasha moves slowly to avoid waking James, but reaches up to scratch at the small white patch under Liho’s chin, laughing silently as he nudges into her touches almost drunkenly, chasing them in a way that reminds her quite forcibly of the sleeping man behind her.

“You’re comparing me to the cat again, aren’t you,” James mumbles sleepily into her hair a few moments later, the lazy curve of his smile soft against the back of her neck.  He pulls in a quiet, contented breath, his right hand sliding slowly over her stomach as he moves, careful to stretch without disturbing her or Liho, who’s managed to work his way beneath the covers to flop happily against her chest.  James pats his head when Liho seeks out his hand, and for all his grumbling reluctance Natasha knows that the small thing has wormed his way into James’ good graces as easily and quickly as he did into Natasha’s.  She’s still not sure how that happened, but on days like this, she has to be honest with herself and admit that she truly doesn’t mind.

“I would never - “

Natasha tips her head back onto James’ shoulder, grinning lazily, and she’s met with an almost-comical look of sleepy disbelief, his eyes half-open beneath a pointedly arched brow, and she can’t help it, she has to twist enough to kiss the edge of his harmless scowl.

“You _always_ \- “ the latter half of his sentence trails off when he brushes his lips against her forehead, yesterday’s stubble rough on his jaw, and Natasha doesn’t bother picking up the thread of the conversation, satisfied to simply cover his hand with hers where it’s traveled to rest on her hip, lacing their fingers gently together.

These days, pleasant, comfortable silence blooms easily between them, and as far as Natasha’s concerned, today is a good day to revel in it.  James returns to his favored spot, nuzzling against the nape of her neck with a few quiet, happy sounds and Natasha simply tips her head forward to allow him the room, unsurprised when his lips begin to wander further up.  He shifts enough to reach his left hand from beneath his pillow and sweep her hair away from her neck, twining his fingers softly in it as he drops gentle, fluttering kisses along the line of her throat, coming to rest with the tip of his nose trailing over the hinge of her jaw.

“You know what day it is?”  There’s the warmth of a laugh in his voice, and Natasha doesn’t have to see him to know he’s smiling, that crooked, private one that’s never once left their many bedrooms.

Playing coy, Natasha simply shakes her head, waiting for the answer she knows is coming.

“It’s our anniversary,” he states plainly, almost as if he’s amazed that she’d forgotten, abandoning her hand to walk his fingers low over her stomach, tracing the curve stretched between her hipbones.

“By your count, it’s been our anniversary four times in the last six months,” she can’t keep the mirth out of her voice, wouldn’t even want to, instead simply choosing to rest back against him, lifting her hand to reach back and slide her fingers into his hair.

“Well, it’s not _my_ fault if I can’t recall the exact date, is it?”  His voice is teasing, and he chases a shiver over her skin with his fingertips, drawing them up the center of her stomach slowly.  “Maybe all those other days I was wrong, and _this time_ I’m right - “

Natasha tugs gently at his hair, lifting his head enough that she can look back at him, finding his eyes.  There’s something golden glinting in them, contented and almost relieved, the same look he’s been giving her since they were reunited, like she just might be magic.  He goes to her without prompting, ducking his head to capture her in a slow, indulgent kiss, smiling against her lips and that, above all else, is what she guards so jealously.

“In _that_ case,” she replies eventually, once the kiss has worn off and she’s holding his eyes again, letting herself get blissfully lost in them, “I suppose that we should celebrate, lest we let another anniversary pass us by - “

“A woman after my own heart,” James chuckles, stealing another kiss, his right hand winging its way over her ribs until he’s gently palming one of her breasts, circling the nipple with a fingertip.

Natasha sighs out a shaking breath, her body already so attuned to his every movement, her back arching to press into the touch.  She cards her fingers through his hair, guiding him gently on his path down her neck again, and he leaves an open-mouthed kiss on her pulse on his way.

“But I already have it - “

<”That you do,”> he murmurs against her skin, no trace of hesitation or teasing left as he slips seamlessly into the language that formed their first gentle words, inviting her along with him into an even more private, secret place, one that belongs only to them.

<”You always have.”>

James drops a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, his thumb stroking gently over her nipple, coaxing it into a sensitive peak before rolling it between his fingers, grinning delightedly against her neck when another shiver dances down her spine.  A quiet moan escapes her, freeing itself from her chest almost of its own accord, and Liho pokes his head out from beneath the blankets, considering them both for a moment before slipping silently off the bed, chirruping on his way down the hall, tail in the air.  She can feel the laugh rumbling inside James’ lungs before it spills into the air, tangling with her own as they both watch him go.

“And to think, I would’ve liked an audience,” James grins, dropping his hand when Natasha frees her fingers from his hair to swat his shoulder.  

“Ow - “

“Idiot,” Natasha replies without malice, teasing him as she finally shifts onto her back to face him more fully.  She brings a hand up to cup his cheek softly, cradling his face in her palms as he moves over her, his hair hanging in waves over his forehead when he dips down to kiss her again.

“You knew that already - “

He settles in close when Natasha moves to cradle his hips with her thighs, hooking her feet behind his knees to drawn him in.  Sliding her hands over his shoulders, letting her fingertips trace softly over the seam where body-warm metal meets flesh, Natasha pulls him to her, inviting another kiss, and another, time spinning out infinite as they lose themselves, together.

There were times where the reverence with which he works his way down her body felt almost scary; Natasha can remember, more clearly now than ever, those first times, secret and stolen, how he’d touched her like he’d never once held something beautiful in his hands and how she questioned, always, why he’d chosen her to change that.  But there was - and still is, will _always_ be - something transformative about his hands on her body, every brush of his lips against her skin a reminder of how much more whole they are, together, than they could ever be apart.

James eases her knees over his shoulders almost luxuriously, kicking himself free of their blankets and taking his time trailing kisses up her thighs, never teasing but always taking his time, as if he’s never quite gotten used to _having it_ , like every time they find themselves together like this is as exciting for him as the very first time they found themselves tangled together in safety.  He offers his mouth to her first, as much for himself as for her, she’s learned, a quiet groan leaving him as he slips his tongue inside her, his left hand splayed low on her stomach to keep her close.  Natasha tangles her fingers in his hair, grounding, guiding, and covers his hand with hers, her grip on it tightening as he continues his exploration, long since having learned the map of her body and still finding new pathways.

Slowly, he slips his fingers inside her, coaxing her ever closer to the edge, and she could never begrudge him anything, let alone every single sound of pleasure he pulls from her.  So she tips her head back against the pillows, finally abandoning his gaze to let her eyes slip closed as heat pools in her gut, her body beginning to tremble as licks into her again, sealing his lips around her clit.  He knows, now, instinctively, to fight the fluttering muscles of her body and crook his fingers deep inside her, and Natasha can feel her orgasm building slowly, deliciously, until the pleasure finally crests and crashes over her like a wave, flooding her with a dizzying warmth, his name the only word echoing through her mind until it finally falls from her lips.

And he brings her back to him slowly, teasing out the aftershocks with gentle strokes of his tongue, soft caresses and light, unhurried kisses over her inner thighs.  When Natasha finally picks her head up again, tucking her chin to gaze down her body, she finds him looking for her, the self-satisfied grin on his face one she can almost imagine on his younger self, something she could swear she’s seen in the newsreels, all cocky self-assurance and none of the edges etched into it by time.  She motions for him, reaching out and he goes to her, shrugging her knees from his shoulders to hold himself above her again, his eyes traveling up her body as he moves, looking at her, always, like maybe she’s his miracle.

Maybe she is.  Because Natasha could admit - she would, if she thought admitting it would somehow make it more real to the both of them than she already knows it is - that he is hers.

She licks the bittersweet taste of herself out of his mouth, and he presses against her eagerly, artless and open, the both of them shedding any sense of grace as they move together, wrapping themselves around the other until there’s no space left between them.  Soon, there’s nothing left but the catch of her palm as she strokes him, his lips brushing her neck as he chases his breath over her skin, doing nothing to muffle his groan when Natasha guides him inside her, wrapping her legs around his waist to keep him close.

The way they move together - now, always, before, during, after - isn’t seamless.  It isn’t perfect, even though it’s practiced, and they wouldn’t want it that way.  They’ve lost far too much time to perfection, to the clinical coldness of routine and the impersonal bite of predictability.  Outside, they don’t miss, they’re the best at what they do, reliable, accurate, but here?

They move together like they were _meant_ to, responsive and ever-changing, evolving, never the same twice just like they aren’t; they grow together - they’ve _grown together_ \- and they could never ask the other to go back to how things were before.

They don’t live there anymore.

And coming home doesn’t always mean going back.

James rearranges them, eventually, shifting them until Natasha is seated in his lap, his arms wrapped around her and his back to their headboard, leaving her in control of their pace, surrendering to her willingly like he always has, offering himself to her knowing that, in return, she’ll do the same.  And so she loops her arms around his neck to keep him close, rocking against him and whispering against his skin, giving him every single one of her secrets knowing that here, inside the circle of his arms, they’re safe.

<”I love you,”> his hand finds her hair, silver fingers tangling in scarlet and when he draws her in for a kiss, murmuring the words against her lips, it feels, every time, like a covenant.

 _I’ll find you.  Always.  Every single time_.

She searches for his eyes, frantic as every nerve in her body sings, electric anticipation racing down her spine, needing that final, grounding look, to see herself reflected in his eyes, to see herself as he sees her, to know -

<”I love you, too - “>

James’ hand finds hers, tangling their fingers tight together as they both careen over the edge into ringing, brilliant darkness, and she knew - she _knows_ \- that the way he spoke her name, that very first time, like the sounds were at home inside his mouth, was just the beginning.

Because when he says it now - nearly silent, a prayer against her skin as he spills himself inside her -

It’s a promise, that there is no end.


End file.
